Venom
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: What if Gandalf and the Three Hunters did not arrive in Edoras at such a timely point?  What if they were a bit later than they were in the book?  What would Éowyn do to save herself and Rohan?  An AU fic  COMPLETE!
1. Loneliness

Chapter fic! Grima/Eowyn, what else? Don't own em. Never will. Hopefully, someday, I will own Grima, though, and then there shall be much rejoicing .. yay..  
  
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I. Loneliness  
  
Éowyn daughter of Éomund stood in front of the mirror in her bower, carefully brushing her golden hair.  
  
_Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty..._ she counted in her head, remembering how as a child she had counted one hundred strokes without fail each night and morn. She was no child now, and was hardly paying attention to her hair for beauty's sake, for now it was merely out of lack of other things with which to occupy her time.  
  
She missed Éomer sorely; it had been a full ten days since the Wormtongue had banished him from Edoras. Théoden her uncle was dead of will, aged before his time by something she did not fully understand. She only knew Wormtongue and the wizard of Orthanc were behind it. Théoden failed to acknowledge her presence when she spoke to him, and even when she took his wrinkled hands in hers and beseeched him to say something, anything, he showed no sign of the ability or desire to do so.  
  
As the people who cared for her were stolen away – Théoden, Théodred, Éomer – her hope had dwindled. It was over. Wormtongue and his master Saruman had won. It infuriated her how ignorant the rest were. Did they not see that their villages and even the Golden Hall itself would burn if they stood idly by? The guards were good men who recognised the Worm as untrustworthy, and yet as long as the king sought the aid of his councilor they would not harm the creature.  
  
Such restraint would destroy them all.  
  
_Fifty-one, fifty-two..._  
  
Éowyn stopped, her hand and the brush dropping to her side. She studied her reflection carefully. Her face was paler than usual from worry, and circles were beginning to stain the skin beneath her eyes as a result of her troubled sleep. The White Lady of Rohan was gone, and in her stead was only a stern princess, shrunken in beauty but grown in grim resolution.  
  
A wry smile flitted across her lips. There was one other who cared for her – if it could be fathomed that a serpent cared for the one object of prey it could never catch, that the cat cared for the mouse it toyed with.  
  
Wormtongue had often told her that she was fair, and once or twice had ventured to say beautiful or even radiant. Never had he said that she was brave, or strong, or worthy of song. Clearly it was only for her looks that he desired her.  
  
She put the brush down and mussed up her hair, undoing her careful grooming. She looked in the mirror once more, satisfied to see that the face that looked back at her was not too far from what she had looked like before she was up and dressed.  
  
Now she was ready to face the dreariness of the world.   
  
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Painfully short, I know. But I have seven more chapters already written and I plan on making this fic about ten total. Review and chapter two will be up sooner!


	2. Meduseld Marred

Chappy 2!!! I decided to lower the rating, because although there will be "sexual themes" it's hardly going to get hot and heavy. Plus, now it'll show up automatically on the lists. Review responses at the end, for those who I couldn't reach through e-mail.  
  
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II. Meduseld Marred  
  
The grand hall held a faint musty smell about it; its walls and columns and floors all gleamed with a dull golden sheen. Tapestries depicting the noble deeds of the kings of old covered the walls and warmed the room. Sunbursts and horses' heads were carved into every available surface, and at the far end of the hall there was a mighty throne on a dais.  
  
Far less mighty was the throne's occupant.  
  
A man all but buried beneath furs and aged far beyond recall of youth had but moments ago sunk gratefully into the ornate throne, with the assistance of another questionable-looking figure. This second man now kneeled at the king's arm and spoke very close to his ear in a soft, soothing manner.  
  
"Do not worry, my liege," Gríma told the decrepit Théoden King. "I see how weary these days have made you. I shall see to it that you remain undisturbed."  
  
"Thank you, Gríma," Théoden murmured almost inaudibly. Gríma rose and made a half bow, even though whether he had completed the motion or not would never have registered in Théoden's mind. It was, after all, necessary to play the part of loyal councilor at all times. He then exited the hall as the king's head began to drop onto his shoulder in the usual slow stupor. There was no need to actually do anything now. Éomer was gone and the guards outside the hall would not dare to bother the king, especially now in his failing health.  
  
Gríma headed slowly down a side corridor which led to the bedchambers, carefully blending into the shadows as was his wont. Shadows were where he felt most at ease, as the sun outside the Hall tended to hurt his pale reptilian eyes.  
  
He wondered where Éowyn was; what she was doing; what she was thinking – whether she was thinking of him. Doubtful, he thought, his black cloak swishing quietly at his feet. If she was, her thoughts were most likely ones of scorn and resentment. And he actually could not blame her if they were as such. He _had_ banished her brother and helped drive her uncle into ruin. And yet, he had not really wanted to do any of it. It was all for _her_. For _them_.  
  
He had not been this way all his life.  
  
Gríma continued his way down the corridor. Perhaps he would go settle down with a good book, since there really was nothing to do at present. He could check up on Théoden – however unnecessary as it was – and visit dear Éowyn later. A nice read did sound appealing. The people of Rohan made many songs but no books; however, Gríma had a small library of volumes in his chamber that he had collected over the years.  
  
Turning a corner and reaching the door to his chamber, he gently pushed it open and stepped inside. He selected a leather-bound, battered old book and settled into the chair for a good part of the morning.   
  
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Yeah, this one's too darn short too. It gets long by Chapter V, I swear! Please review!  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**BoromirDefender--** Thanks for your review--hope you liked this chapter as well!


	3. Sneaks

ElvenPirate41 donned her spiffy pirate hat and began the introduction. "Here's chapter three, guys! I hope you find it to your liking. A little side note! I have officially decided that Gríma here is my new muse, because of the nasty habit he has of slipping into my mind whenever I decide to write." She sighed and shook her head in her muse's direction. Gríma grinned in delight at having overcome yet another hapless victim. "So," she continued, "as part of his new job, Gríma is going to do the disclaimer."  
Gríma's smile faded and he grumpily spoke. "She doesn't own the Lord of the Rings or aught of that ilk." He turned to EP41. "Good enough for you?"  
She flashed a sparkly smile. "Perfect, Grimmers. Let Venom Part III begin!"  
  
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III. Sneaks  
  
Carefully, Éowyn crept out of her own chamber, closing the door slowly and walking as silently as possible so he would not hear her leave. He had been in his room for over an hour already – she had learned that careful evaluation of his activities was the only way to avoid him. That was the one thing that had irked her for a long time about the Golden Hall: all the bedchambers were located in the same hallway, so Worm always knew when she came and went.  
  
Since it was yet early in the day, she wanted to try and get some kind of response from her uncle. A brief vision of herself with her sword raised over Wormtongue, prepared to strike, flitted through her mind, but she pushed it aside just as quickly. Not now. Despite the fact that his stature was less than that of most men, she had little doubt that he was the stronger of the two. Someday she would catch him at unawares, and it would end. However, now was not the time.  
  
Practically tiptoeing until she was far down the corridor, Éowyn came into the main hall. Théoden was slumped in his throne, the ratty fur collar of his robe barely supporting his head. His eyes were half-closed and he looked almost asleep. But Éowyn knew better. It was no natural sleep or weariness that kept her uncle in this state.  
  
Gathering the skirts of her favorite white dress about her, she knelt down in front of the throne. "Good morning, uncle," she said to him, looking earnestly into his face. _There is nothing good about it as of yet,_ she thought, _save that I have evaded Wormtongue for now._  
  
Théoden's eyelids lifted ever so slightly, enough that she could see a decent-sized sliver of faded blue staring blankly ahead. She took his cold wrinkled hands and tried to warm them with her own. "Will you not take something to eat? There is food yet left from the meal this morning." As she had expected, he did not respond in the least.  
  
"Uncle?" she tried again, beseechingly. She needed him to speak something to her, so she would know that he was still fighting. Yet it seemed that he had slipped under the spell and beyond her aid.  
  
Tears began to well up in her eyes. She was truly alone, no one remained for her. Blinking rapidly, she released her uncle's hands and stood up to leave.  
  
In the darkness of the wing, a figure in black frowned slightly to himself, then receded into the shadows.  
  
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"Well?" EP41 said excitedly. "Want to review?"  
"Of course they want to review," said Gríma. "They should all review, or I'll invade their minds too! MUAHAHAHA!!!"  
"Uh, Gríma? I love you very very much, but you're not an evil supergenius," EP41 told him, trying to break the news lightly. "You're just a delightfully skulky fellow who's got a way with words."  
"Oh..." said Gríma, pouting a little. "That's okay!" he said, brightening. "If I can hypnotize Théoden, I can make them review!"  
  
Well, you heard him! Drop me a line, luvs, and tell me what you think! I know this chapter's short too, and the next one will be as well. But review and they'll come quicker! And tell me if you found the intro and ending narratives between my muse and me remotely amusing or just stupid, lol.  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**Lady Baelish--** Thanks so much for your review, it was so encouraging and made me decide to post this a bit earlier than planned. Tell your friends I'll update faster if they all review! Yeah, I suppose Gríma does seem pretty normal, and not entirely nasty. Perhaps my approach to him is a bit more sympathetic than it should be... but it's fun anyway, lol. Hope you liked this chapter! 


	4. Hiding

"So," ElvenPirate41 began, "I bring to you another stinkily short chapter. Sorry about the length, but I believe Chapter V is as long as all the first four combined. Take it away, Grima!"  
Grima looked up from his book. "Do it yourself, you lazy sod! I'm not doing anything until I get some action."  
EP sighed and did the disclaimer. "I don't own stuff. I own a magical laser-deflecting wrist cuff, but not all this."  
  
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IV. Hiding  
  
Éowyn drew a hasty hand over her eyes. _A shieldmaiden must not cry,_ she told herself. _At least not in the Hall. Not where anyone might see her._ Taking a deep breath to calm and compose herself, she began to head back to her room.  
  
Upon exiting the hall, Éowyn felt a bit better, though still in a fouler mood than when she had first entered. She took another shaky breath as she continued on, quieting her footfalls since she was drawing closer to her room.  
  
She hoped Wormtongue was still in his, as she was in no mood for a confrontation. With the way she was feeling, she was unsure if she would be able to fend him off as she usually could. A few cold words and a harsh stare were enough to keep him away for awhile, but with no one else around... she did not wish to think of how bold he might become under such circumstances.  
  
A tiny, tiny, minute part of her almost wished he was out and about, however, for she could at least use the conversation. He was, although a sleazy man, an intelligent one – she knew this from his manner of speech and his skill with language and sums. Plus, if he did do anything questionable, it would give her all the more reason to kill him when the opportune moment came around. Her greater reason prevailed over this thought, though. Any contact with him would only make matters worse right now.  
  
Sniffling a bit, she touched a hand to her messy hair, then paused. She had thought she had heard a soft noise behind her. Lowering her hand, she turned her head slightly, warily. Then, emboldened, she turned quickly.  
  
But there was nothing behind her. _Éowyn, you're acting like a silly girl_, she thought to herself. _There's nothing there. Only the shadows._  
  
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The corners of Gríma's mouth turned downward at seeing her in such a state over her uncle. Never had he intended to be the cause of her tears, even if it was in an indirect way. After all, he was the only one who understood her.  
  
She looked sad but beautiful to him, as always. Even the hollows under her eyes were endearing. Her long golden hair was unbrushed and tangled, and he felt almost sorry for everything he had done, for all but selling his soul to a mad wizard. Her exhausted, jaded appearance did not make her any less attractive in his eyes, and yet he thought that such a perfect woman deserved to look perfect all the time.  
  
When she rose, he took a few steps backwards until the darkness of the hall cloaked him almost completely. She walked right past him, wiping persistent tears away. He had almost wished she might see him there, watching her, so that she might say something to him. Her stinging words hurt, but they were better than nothing.  
  
She was several metres down the hall when he began to softly pad along a ways behind her, never entering the light if he could help it. He heard her sniffling to herself as much as she tried not to, and he wished he could somehow help her. If he did speak to her, she most likely would respond cruelly. She tried to pretend she was made of ice, but he knew better. He could hear her sobs late at night when she thought the rest of the world was asleep.  
  
Lost in thought, Gríma stumbled over a loose stone in the floor. He swore to himself internally, using without thinking some unsavory word he had heard one of the Orcs muttering in Orthanc. He quickly stepped back against the wall as he saw Éowyn stop walking. Torn between wanting to be found and hoping she would not turn to see what had made the noise, he shut his eyes and pulled further back into the darkness behind a statue of Eorl the Young.  
  
But no further inspection came, and from what he could discern by hearing alone, she turned to face the way she had come before shrugging off the noise and continuing on her way.  
  
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"Yeah, so it's short. Please bear with me," said EP, prying Grima away from his book.  
"You all know you want to review," Grima said, glaring indignantly at his muse-mistress. "Or else _crebain_ from Dunland will come poo on you."  
"That's gross," EP said, making a face and running for cover.


	5. Encounter

ElvenPirate41, ShelobTinuviel, and Gríma were sitting in a circle at their group therapy session.  
ST stood up. "Hi, I'm ShelobTinuviel and I have Band Teacher Syndrome. I've been clean for five days." Everyone applauded.  
"Hi, my name is ElvenPirate41," said EP, "and I like slash. I've been clean for one day." More applause.  
Then it was the muse's turn. "My name is Gríma and I'm addicted to blonde babes in white dresses. I've been clean for...thirty seconds!" he said, hastily stuffing a picture of Éowyn inside his robes.  
Both EP41 and ST were very glad they were wearing black.  
"Oh look, the readers are here," EP exclaimed, rushing to put away the self-esteem boosting posters and self-help pamphlets. "Take it away, Gríma!"  
Gríma sighed heavily. "Yeah, yeah, she doesn't own this stuff."  
An old man suddenly entered. "Blah blah Lord of the Rings blah blah blah." Then he was gone.  
"What the fork was that about?" ShelobTinuviel said in confusion. EP just shook her head and motioned for the story to continue.  
  
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V. Encounter  
  
She was almost to her chamber, and he had been far more careful about masking the sounds of his feet since the close call a few minutes before. They called him Worm, called him Snake, and so he would be. No one noticed a worm, and no one heard a snake as it moved where it would.  
  
Every so often, Éowyn would raise a hand to her face, certainly wiping away tears that refused to stop tracking their way down her pretty face. Gríma contemplated the valiance of offering her a handkerchief before remembering that the only one he had was far from clean and would only serve to repulse her. Nothing he had was fit for her; perhaps even he wasn't fit for her. She deserved someone better than he, a warrior of Rohan who was strong and admirable. He was not fit to speak to her, not fit to touch her, but oh, how he wished he could.  
  
He now knew that he was definitely going to speak to her, but what to say? Years of being faced with difficult scenarios – everything from childhood teasing to working his way into the mind of the king – had prepared him for just about every situation. Yet now he was not as sure of his prowess with words as he usually was. She was impossible to predict, unlike everyone else. Éomer was hotheaded and only force could overcome him. Théoden was a proud man, but what he wanted to hear combined with Saruman's instructions had brought even him down.  
  
But Éowyn, she was different. She might be cold and hostile, and then let her guard down when he offered her sympathy, but it would snap right up again a moment later. He had to tread carefully around her, because to make her like him – loving him was yet too much to hope for – would take cautious words and proper timing.  
  
He would ask her why she was crying. That was unassuming enough. No doubt she would lash back immediately with something along the lines of, _"Because of what you have done,"_ – at least he could read her that much – but he would feign innocence. If worst came to worst, he would tell her exactly why he had done everything. He might sound like a selfish little child, but he would tell her. He had never confessed his love to her, or to anyone, but he would if the need arose.  
  
She was now at her chamber door. She cast a quick glance down the adjoining hall, where his chamber was, and opened the door. She stepped in, and he quickly followed until he stood outside the doorframe. She moved across the room, apparently ready to cast herself onto her bed, when he gathered his courage and spoke.  
  
"Why does my lady weep?" He moved so that he was just inside the room. He did not want to intimidate her.  
  
Éowyn turned, after hastily wiping her eyes again, vainly trying to hide her tears. "Do not act like you do not know, Wormtongue." _So I was right,_ Gríma thought.  
  
"I would have you tell me, for it pains me to see you thus, Éowyn. Such sadness in a face that once loved life." He took a small subtle step into the room.  
  
"You mock me. You mock me in the misery which you have caused me. You know full well what you have done – to my uncle, to my brother, to me! And to Rohan! You have ruined us all."  
  
"My lady, while it is a pity that Théoden in his inconsiderateness failed to attend your cousin's funeral, at which, may I say, your song was quite lovely, his indisposed state is not my doing. I am a mere councilor of no great power." He spoke slowly, letting her absorb each word.  
  
"Éomer—"  
  
"—was a traitor. Deliberately he disobeyed the will of the King, and the King was the one who signed the paper which declared him banished. You have seen it with your own eyes."  
  
"You vile—!" She stopped herself mid-insult, her tone moving swiftly from sadness to anger. "Your nerve astounds me, Snake; you dare to call my brother a traitor when all he ever did was serve Rohan._ You_ are the traitor. My uncle trusted you!" She took a step forward, her white dress swishing after her. He loved seeing her in that dress.  
  
"Never has it been my desire to cause you grief, Éowyn. Do not believe that this has been the object of anything I have done."  
  
"And how do you expect me to believe this, when everything I see declares otherwise? If this truly was what you wanted, then you have failed utterly." She took another step forward, bolder this time. "I hope you are happy with what you have done here. I hope you are satisfied with the ruin you have brought down upon us. Though I know not why you chose to join with Saruman, I hope that you have found what results you sought in such an alliance."  
  
He said nothing, lowering his gaze to the ground and almost shivering at her cold words.  
  
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Éowyn had expected more denial, and his quiet acceptance of her last attack had nearly astonished her. Her anger towards him had been growing rapidly; if he had taken one step closer to her she would have run for her sword. But now, he aroused a bit of the curiosity she had displayed in her childhood. Could it be possible that he was feeling remorse for his actions? It made no difference, of course, whether he did; what was done was done, and his evil could not be unmade. But still...  
  
"Well? Have you for once nothing to say? Why did you do it?" she asked impatiently.  
  
He looked up into her face with some surprise, and she noticed not for the first time that his eyes did not match in color. One was a darker blue, and the other washed out, robbed of most of its color. Sometimes she imagined the pale eye could look into her mind and understand all her thoughts; this idea frightened her no small amount. How did he seem to know everything about her? The day of Théodred's death he had spoken to her. She remembered his words well, for they had been wholly truthful. For a few seconds she had not felt as she usually did that she wanted to get as far away from him as she could, rather she felt that he understood her. Then, of course, she had recovered her senses, fearing that to destroy the mind of her uncle was not enough, and he was working his way into her mind too.  
  
Still he remained silent, staring into her face. "I bade you speak, Worm," Éowyn said with some haughtiness, using the voice of a princess and not a shieldmaiden. "It is unlikely for such a request to ever come from me again, so I suggest you choose your words wisely."  
  
She waited, satisfied that now she had seemingly taken charge of the conversation. Wormtongue appeared to be unsure as of what to say, and he lessened in her sight without that shield of words whisking about him like another black cloak. If he had been a person with less of a guard over every single one of his actions, Éowyn suspected he would be opening and closing his mouth like a fish.  
  
Nearly a minute passed that they stood in silence. She felt rather triumphant; at last she had beaten the Worm at his own game.  
  
"Then it is as I thought," she said. "Even one so low as you knows that no amount of fair words can truly make up for what you have done." Her voice rose. "You sell yourself to Saruman, you betray your homeland, you destroy your king! You—"  
  
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"—traitorous wretch, I don't know how you can stand to rise in the morning knowing that you have destroyed the lives of so many people..."  
  
She continued her tirade, her eyes becoming wet with angry tears. Her words stung him, they really did, especially because he knew she was right. It was possible to stop her ranting by telling her that he did it all for her, but she couldn't possibly understand that.  
  
What to say? What to make her stop? He had not felt so helpless in years.  
  
Her accusations at last began to wind down. The speed of her talk slowed, and hot tears were still grouping into narrow puddles that were not yet large enough to spill; but he had formed a decent string of words in his mind.  
  
"Do you know not the treachery of Saruman, to us and probably even to you? I suppose you thought you would get something out of all this, witless fool that you are." She stopped at last, out of things to say and looking at him expectantly.  
  
He offered her a thin, cold smile. "It is as my Lord Éomer said ere his unfortunate departure... I was promised my share of the treasure."  
  
Éowyn looked at him with narrowed eyes that did not seem to fully accept this explanation. He moved closer to her, slightly emboldened.  
  
"But then, of course, not all treasure is silver and gold, is it, Éowyn? For you, I suppose, treasure might be a sword, or a helm, or a strong horse, would it not? Or perhaps a deed, the valor of battle, might suffice for you, shieldmaiden?" Her eyes, green as the distant woods in the month of Lótessë, now had widened slightly and seemed less distrustful.  
  
"My lady is troubled these sad days. I can see it in your face." He reached out and smoothed a bit of her beautifully disheveled hair, tucking a lock behind her ear. He was amazed by its softness, and the way it floated onto her shoulders and framed her face. "You feel alone. Let me tell you that I am no stranger to this, and that it will only get worse should you envelop yourself in solitude and there dwell on the darkness of the world." He lowered his hand to her collarbone so his thumb rested on her neck. She did not move away. "But let me also say that it causes me sadness to know that you need not live this way.  
  
"I have heard you weeping in the night for reasons which I do not fully know. Perhaps you cry for your brother, perhaps for Théoden, or for Rohan, or for yourself – all these things you say I have wronged. And then perhaps you cry because of things I have done, and this is by far the worst reason you could tell me." Her eyes at last let loose their silvery contents, though she made no sound. "I would say you cry for all these, and also for the fact that here in Meduseld you feel trapped, obligated to take care of an incapacitated old man. A shame, really, that a woman such as yourself must waste her days away here when she could better spend her energies on warfare and glory. Am I not correct in saying that this is what you feel?"  
  
Tears flowed unhindered down her face, though he could see she struggled to abate them. He began to circle her like a hawk; nay, like a scavenging vulture. His cloak brushed her as he slowly moved.  
  
"And now you fear that this fantasy of valor will never come to pass, for how could it when all you are surrounded by is treachery and leechcraft, as I believe you have so eloquently put it? After all, the only people here are a helpless king, idle guards, and he whom you call the Wormtongue. But tell me, princess, which do you prefer: this company or none at all?"  
  
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The things he was saying seemed to be read nearly word for word from her mind. She had never shared these thoughts with anyone; how could he possibly know? And to his final question, though rhetorical in its nature, she could not come up with an answer to suit herself. _None at all, of course,_ was her first thought, but then she chided herself for the falsehood. _You cannot fool yourself; just before you were nearly hoping to see him just for the brief company... however unpleasant his company may be._  
  
She hated him for making her cry, for destroying everything she had loved. How could one man, one weak, horrid, detested little man, make so much misery? All the ruin he had created with the fell wizard's aid was undoable. Théoden was as good as dead, and he was right; she had to remain to tend him for the fact that she was a woman. Were she a man, a Rider like Éomer, she could escape all this. But now she would never escape. It seemed she was doomed to die here, whether by the forces of Mordor or by the slow wasting of her years.  
  
He was circling in a slow, deliberate way that wholly unnerved her. He passed behind her so she could not see him as he spoke, but his voice was as tangible as his body; she could all but see his repulsive face floating before her, his mismatched eyes full of malice. She could never escape.  
  
Unless...  
  
No. The very thought was repulsive; she could hardly believe it had entered her mind. She could never do that.  
  
But still...  
  
No. It was impossible. It would never work. He would never agree to make compromises of any sort. He served himself before anyone else, even before Saruman his true master.  
  
But if she offered him that...  
  
"You are troubled yet, Éowyn. Is there nothing that might alleviate your sorrows?" He came back in front of her, touching his hand to her upper arm.  
  
Tears burned her eyes like fire and acid. It was for the good of Rohan, for the good of her people. She was the only one who could save them – and he was the only one who could help. She calmed her breathing as best she could before speaking.  
  
"Councilor, will you undo the evils you have made against Rohan..."  
  
If the twat had had eyebrows they would have been raised in anticipation of what she was about to propose.  
  
"...if I agree to lie with you tonight?" She paused and grimly enjoyed the look of absolute disbelief on his ugly face as he withdrew his hand in surprise. "My lord?"  
  
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ElvenPirate41 hid behind the couch, hoping to avoid being hit by flying objects. "Okay, okay!" she said, creeping out with her hands in the air. "Please don't tell me that Éowyn is behaving OOC, because I know it. She's just very, very desperate, and please note that this is an AU fic! Please!!!!" Gríma timidly looked over the top of the couch to agree, and nearly got his head taken off by a flying lava lamp.  
  
"So, uh, yeah," said EP. "Wanna review? I guess you can flame if you want, it's your business and I can't stop you, but just remember what will be done with flames. They will be laughed at and used to burn the souls of the innocent! MUAHAHAHA!!!!" She cackled evilly and disappeared, leaving a very confused muse to clean up the mess.   
  
Review Responses:  
  
**Natara--** Thanks for your kind reviews! Yeah... I wouldn't mind Grima inside my head much myself either ;)   
**spritejessa**-- Thanks! Here was a nice long chapter for ya!  
  
Cookies to anyone who reviews, and cannolis to those who caught the Pirates of the Caribbean reference!


	6. Accord

"You know," ElvenPirate41 said, "I think that despite the looks Gríma is a pretty cool guy. Everyone should go join his fanlisting!"  
"YES!" cried ShelobTinuviel, and she continued with the air of a medieval herald, "AND WE WILL MAKE THE BANNERS OF CLOTH AND PAINT AND SKIMPY THONGS, AND WE WILL HOIST THEM TO THE SKY, SINGING SONGS OF WORMS AND TONGUES AND GRIME! AND WE WILL MAKE HIM THE POTATO SALAD AND CURLY FRIES, WITH ROPE ON A SOAP!"  
"Gosh, you guys really think that of me?" said Gríma happily. "Yay! Now I'll do the disclaimer without even being asked! EP41 doesn't own this stuff, nor will she ever."  
"Unless perhaps I was J.R.R. Tolkien in a past life," EP mused.  
"I wouldn't count on it," said ST, hugging her Commodore Norrington plushie.  
  
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VI. Accord  
  
Gríma could scarcely believe what he had just heard. What was the cause of this sudden offer? He had never thought this would come from her; it had for many long years been only animosity and sorrow that she had displayed.  
  
_ Yes, yes, yes!_ he thought. For what else could he think? If he was a joyful person by nature, he probably would have begun to dance out of happiness. At last he had his opportunity to have Éowyn, even if for one night, for perhaps he could convince her that he really loved her. Then they could share all the nights until the ending of their time.  
  
_Wait._ The gears in the shrewder, more logical part of his mind immediately began to turn. There had to be a catch; there was always a catch. Utter joy turned to slight skepticism.  
  
"My lady," he said slowly, "you will do this?"  
  
She took a breath. "Yes, if you do what I ask of you."  
  
"And what, pray tell, do you ask?"  
  
She adopted an authoritative tone that did not fully deceive him of her unstable state. "You will revoke the banishment of my brother, for no matter how often you protest that it was my uncle's decision, I know that you had a hand in it. You will cease to poison the mind of the king with your double-edged words. And lastly, you will help restore Meduseld to all that it was before you tainted it with your presence."  
  
The suspicion that had built up in his mind over the years still would not quiet. "Yes, Éowyn, this can all be done, but how am I to know that the moment dear Éomer and Théoden are restored to Meduseld, you will not claim that you were... unwilling, and then have me killed? That would be most detrimental to the rebuilding of Rohan."  
  
"No harm shall come to you by my order. You have my word, if I have yours."  
  
Gríma thought about this. To go against the wishes of Saruman was a thing most unwise, and yet this might be his last chance to endear Éowyn to him. Saruman had promised her to him if he did his bidding, but Gríma was beginning to suspect that the wizard's promises were without basis. Tonight would actually happen rather than dance tantalizingly in front of his face while he swore fealty to a power far greater than he.  
  
It was too promising to turn down.  
  
"In that case, I would say that we have reached an agreement." This was perfect, absolutely perfect. Whatever repercussions were likely to occur were not important. If Éowyn were to accept him, Saruman could do anything he wanted to him and he would never complain.  
  
She nodded somewhat stiffly, though her tears had stopped. "Well, then. I shall come to your chamber upon the second hour after sundown."  
  
He bowed slightly. "Until then, my lady," he said, and departed.  
  
---------------------------------  
  
"Sorry it's so short," EP said unapologetically. "No, really. The next one's nice and long, though. So, would you like to review for me? Please?"   
  
Review Responses:  
  
**Natara**-- Thanks for the review! Saruman and Gandalf are so troublesome, aren't they? ;)  
  
**auri mynonys**-- Who doesn't want to give Grima a big hug and kiss? sigh Why must I always lust after the unwashed ones? Thanks for your spiffy review! 


	7. Evermind

ElvenPirate41 hung her head in shame. "I'm a bad person," she lamented. "No, really. I left you faithful readers all alone for a week and a half, without a new chapter! And for this I sincerely apologize... I have no excuse save forgetfulness."  
"You should be sorry," said Gríma indignantly. "You left me hanging too! I'm your bloody muse, and even I don't get to find out what happens beforehand! Noooo, only ShelobTinuviel does!"  
"She's my beta and best friend!" EP shouted. "Of course she gets to read it!"  
"Excuses, excuses," Gríma said, shaking his head. He began to talk quite fast, eager to get on with the chapter. "EP doesn't own this. She owns a brand spankin' new CD player and a watch that's as ugly as an albino dwarf after two years pickling in the Dead Marshes...but not this."

A/N: Usually dashes in the middle of a chapter signify a POV change, but in this case the dashes are separated like so: - - - - - - and this means a flashback.

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VII. Evermind  
  
She had not always hated him, Éowyn remembered somewhat bitterly as she watched the sun go down from outside the Hall. At first she had been merely curious about him: the only person in all of Edoras – and probably all of Rohan – who loved books and words over horses and war. She had pitied him then too; pitied him for the way he looked and the way he was treated. Eventually she had come to admire him for his knowledge and his seeming wisdom beyond his years.  
  
No, she had not always hated him...  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
  
Five-year-old Éowyn hurried through the dusty streets of Edoras in a bit of a huff that was rather amusing to see in one so young.  
  
_Stupid Éomer,_ she thought. _Why won't he let me play with him?_ He and a few of his friends had been playfighting with some dull swords, overseen by their older cousin Théodred. When she had asked if she could play too, Éomer had said that she wasn't old enough, and that she had to stop tagging along and trying to do everything he did, and besides, she was a girl. _Dumb Éomer. I hope he loses their fight._  
  
As she walked, many of the people outside their homes and in the market smiled to see the king's pretty young niece who had such a brave father, but Éowyn was too upset to notice. Why was Éomer being so mean? Most of the time he would play with her and teach her the fighting techniques that Théodred had shown to him. Why did he say no now? She didn't understand.  
  
Reaching the center of the small but crowded marketplace, her eye was caught by a display of swords hanging behind a small booth. She pushed almost unnoticed between some men who were just leaving, and stared up at the weapons with some wonder at their fine craftsmanship. The man running the booth recognized her and smiled.  
  
"Ye like the swords, m'lady?"  
  
She smiled back, slightly cheered. "They are beautiful. Did you make them?"  
  
He proudly shook his head yes. "Aye, that I did, Princess. Takes a lot of work, but it's worth it. There's nothin' better than a good sword."  
  
Éowyn smiled again and politely bid him good day. How she wanted one of those swords for her own, with the fine metalwork on the hilt and the symbols of Rohan on the sheath. Right now she doubted she could even lift one of them, but they were like the dresses Mother had the seamstresses make for her: she would grow into them.  
  
Sighing in a very world-weary fashion, she made her way out through the other side of the marketplace. Once again she was surrounded by homes, and by mothers sweeping their doorsteps, fathers roughhousing with their sons and lovingly teasing their daughters, and children happily running about. She liked seeing the people in Edoras. While Father was constantly saying that it was tiny compared to the wide stretches of the Riddermark, it seemed very large to her, and she never tired of exploring.  
  
Éowyn knew exactly how far she had gone on previous trips, and each time she tried to go a bit further. She might, of course, return home and be reprimanded for missing supper and getting her white dress all dirty. But, she knew Father wasn't really angry when he told her she had better not do it again; there was always a look in his eye that made her think he actually didn't mind it and was only scolding her for Mother's sake.  
  
She was coming upon the row of homes which marked the extent of her last journey down the hill. She recalled that the very last home she had passed had a sunburst carved into the door, for it housed a skilled carpenter. She turned her head as she made her way down the narrowing road, searching for the house. At last she spotted it, and felt a slight thrill of excitement and discovery as she passed it by.  
  
As Éowyn continued, she realized that she was nearing the outskirts of the city. Although she was excited by this achievement, she was also a little saddened. Maybe Edoras wasn't as large as she had thought. What would she do when she had nowhere new to explore? She shrugged off the dilemma; she'd think about it later. Now it was time to take in her new surroundings.  
  
She eagerly turned a corner and looked about. Then she stopped walking and listened carefully; she could hear raised voices coming from a bit down the way. Curiously, she stepped quietly down the street until she could discern what they owners of the voices were saying; she crept closer and peeked around the corner of a house. There were the people, and though unarmed they definitely were not playfighting.  
  
A group of older boys, tall and almost men, were shouting at someone she could not yet see.  
  
"Finally dared to venture out of your hole in the ground, did you, Worm?" one of the boys said.  
  
"You should have stayed in there; no one wants you out here," said another.  
  
"I'm surprised the sunlight hasn't melted him yet," a third said, and they all laughed.  
  
Apparently the victim of their teasing had attempted to get away, because the boy who seemed to be their leader suddenly shouted, "And where are you crawling off to?" Suddenly he pushed the person into view.  
  
He was far shorter than the other boys, and pale and slightly bent. Tendrils of limp hair framed an unsightly face; his eyes were wide and frightened. He wore black robes despite the hot summer sun, and his arms were full of books and parchment.  
  
"Crawling off to go somewhere else you're not wanted?" The leader pushed him across to one of the others. The boy in black stumbled and tried to keep what he held from falling. "Going to go scare some children, are you?" He was pushed again. The leader stepped in front of him and with a blow knocked the books from his arms onto the ground.  
  
The boy in black falteringly looked the leader in the face, and Éowyn thought he looked as though he was very scared but did not want the other boys to know it. The leader seized him by the shoulder.  
  
"If I were you, Worm, I'd think twice before coming out again." He pushed the boy once more so that he nearly fell, and then spat upon one of the books on the ground. The boys all laughed again and walked away.  
  
The boy in black slowly knelt down and began to pick the books up, wiping the saliva off with his sleeve. Éowyn could not stand there and watch any longer. She approached him from behind, thinking that maybe she could help him and find out why he was being teased.  
  
When she was about two paces behind him, she spoke. "Excuse me?"  
  
"What?" he snarled, looking over his shoulder. She jumped at his sudden response. He saw that she was not someone who was going to bother him, and he looked sorry and a little embarrassed.  
  
"Oh... sorry," he said, and turned back to gathering the fallen books.  
  
Éowyn came around in front of him. "What's your name?"  
  
He looked up at her. "W— I mean, Gríma," he said, hastily correcting himself. "Son of Gálmód."  
  
She bent down and handed him a book. "How old are you?"  
  
"Sixteen."  
  
"Why were those boys being so mean to you?"  
  
He gathered the last of the parchment and rose, immediately becoming defensive. "Why are you asking questions of a complete stranger? Your name might be a better thing to say, before you expect me to converse with you."  
  
Éowyn held her head high. "I am Éowyn daughter of Éomund, First Marshal of the Mark."  
  
Gríma looked unsure of himself again, now realizing that she was royalty. "My apologies, princess."  
  
She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Why were they teasing you?"  
  
"It was nothing. They were just joking." Éowyn was not fooled. He was probably ashamed to tell a princess of Rohan that her people were behaving like dogs.  
  
"I'm not going to get you in trouble or anything," she said persistently. "Tell me."  
  
"Isn't it obvious?" he said dejectedly, staring somewhere a foot above her head and a million leagues off.  
  
"Well, there's no reason to be mean just because someone's walking outside. You can walk wherever you like."  
  
"I suppose."  
  
Éowyn was not sure what do say, so she thought a change of subject might be in order. "You read?"  
  
His gaze snapped back to her. He nodded, and the simple motion held more enthusiasm than any other aspect of their conversation thus far. Even at five she could detect a hint of pride in him about this; as far as she knew, few in Rohan possessed this skill. He showed her the titles of the two thick books: _The Lines of Gondor_ and _I Istari._ "The second one means The Wizards," he told her. "It's all about the powerful Five that came to Middle-earth."  
  
She pointed at one of the pieces of parchment. "What's that?"  
  
He squinted. "Here." She followed him into the shade of one of the houses, where he sat upon a roughly carven bench and placed his books next to him. Carefully she climbed up beside him as he unfolded the parchment.  
  
It was a map, a beautifully drawn map with many symbols and names she could not read. He pointed to a spot that drifted towards the bottom right corner of the map. "Rohan is all around here." An ink-stained finger moved to a small labeled dot. "And this is Edoras. There's Isengard and the Tower of Orthanc near the Gap..."  
  
He proceeded to tell her what all the places were and as much as he could about the people there. She listened, completely enraptured, and thinking that Father was right – the world was enormous. Edoras was just a little dot on a huge map. What had she been thinking before? There was a whole world to explore!  
  
She briefly looked up at Gríma's face as he explained how a Steward named Denethor was ruling Gondor because there had been no King for centuries. She had already decided that he was not good-looking in any way, but his face was friendlier now. She was glad she had gotten him to be nice.  
  
Gríma was telling her that few people in Gondor really believed there would ever be a King again when suddenly he stopped. "I must be boring you," he said.  
  
Éowyn shook her head vehemently. "No! I like these stories about the rest of the world. I want to know everything!"  
  
The corners of his mouth turned up very slightly. "So do I."  
  
She hopped off the bench. "I should go, though, or Mother will scold me for missing supper. Can I come back sometime?"  
  
He nodded. "Next time I'll tell you about the lost isle of Númenor."  
  
She smiled and decided she'd come back as soon as possible; a lost isle sounded very exciting. "Bye, Gríma."  
  
He gave her another tiny smile. "Goodbye." He folded the map up again as she left.  
  
When she got home, supper had already begun. "Éowyn, dear, why are you so late again?" her mother had asked with some exasperation.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mother. I was down the hill exploring."  
  
"Éomund?" her mother said, looking for support from her husband.  
  
"I do not see it as a problem, Théodwyn," said her father. "She is young, why should she not be curious?"  
  
"Better down in the village than up by Meduseld pestering me," Éomer said through a mouthful of bread.  
  
"Now, Éomer!" Théodwyn chided. She turned back to Éowyn. "I certainly hope you weren't getting into trouble."  
  
Éowyn shook her head. "No, Mother. I made a new friend. His name's Gríma."  
  
Indeed, she had thought of him as a friend in those days. He never ran out of tales and facts to tell her about the various peoples and places of Middle-earth, and she never tired of hearing them. When her father was killed, it was tearfully to Gríma that she had run. She used to think that he was the smartest person in the world; although when she told him this he would smile and shake his dirty raven head and remind her of the Istari and the lords of the Elves, all far wiser than he could ever hope to be.  
  
And now he was friend to no one, wretched and unlovable. Éowyn wondered when he had begun to serve Saruman, when his corruption had taken root and his animosity towards much of Rohan mutated into something more malicious. He had not been like this when she was a child.  
  
How had everything turned to ruin?  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
  
The sun had sunk below the horizon, turning the golden plains of the Riddermark into bloodstained tresses slashed unceremoniously by long shadows. But eventually the last light that had clung to the sky for so long faded away as night slipped in like a dark curtain. When the Evening Star – which Éowyn dryly recalled Wormtongue having taught her was called Eärendil by the Elves – kindled halfway above the horizon, she had turned her back on the plains and returned to her chamber.  
  
Now, sitting on her bed, she guessed she had perhaps an hour before she was to go to him. She would have to ready herself; if this was to work then she had to look her best.  
  
She picked up her brush again and smoothed her hair until it shone; then she went to the basin in the corner and splashed some water on her tired face. Choosing a dress would be relatively simple. Flinging open the door to her wardrobe, she selected a dress she rarely wore, partly because of its impracticality and partly because it showed a bit more of her than she preferred. But for now it would be perfect.  
  
She wriggled out of her dress and put on the new one. It had a lower neckline than any of her other clothes, with embroidered flowers around the neck and sleeves. It too was white. Somehow she sensed that Wormtongue liked her best in that shade. How strange it was that one with such a blackened heart should desire her in white, the color of purity. Strange that a doer of dark deeds should crave the light.  
  
Éowyn stepped over to the mirror. She looked perfect, and yet she was a mess inside; her mind was immersed in hateful thoughts towards herself. _I'm acting like the lowest whore in all the Mark, _she thought bitterly as she looked at her reflection, hating the way her breasts were exposed by the ridiculous dress. This was going to be an awful experience, degrading beyond the tell of words. Wormtongue was his name... for a moment she thought of his tongue thrusting into her mouth, and the Valar knew where else...  
  
_But it's for the best. I have to do it._  
  
She remembered how when she was a girl, her favorite tales had always been the ones about the warrior queens of old from which the Rohirrim were descended, who sacrificed everything for their people. These women gave up the chance to have love, family, and homes, and sometimes even died at the head of their lines in battle. They protected their people against everything from starvation to invaders, and never thought once about their own well-being. Éowyn had found it amazing that such unstoppable warriors could also be so selfless.  
  
_ I am one of those warriors now. I am the only one who can protect my people. There is no shame in that._  
  
But still, she couldn't shake off a feeling of disgust with herself. Unable to look at herself in the mirror any longer, she glanced at the hourglass across the room.  
  
It was time.  
  
Éowyn shuddered as a noiseless sob escaped her like a soul leaving a newly dead body.   
  
-----------------------------------------------------

At least it was long! Again, I'm sorry for the delay ::kicks self:: Please review? I'm rather fond of this chapter! ::looks at screen adoringly::  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**Verse--** Thanks for your review! I emailed Vereena yesterday, no response as of yet.   
  
**Auri Mynonys**-- Yes, poor Grima does deserve some action! Grima fans unite!  
  
**Natara**-- I too am trying to find a way for them to be together forever.... it's proving difficult. Wah!  
  
**Eternal Dragon101--** ::tips pirate hat in return:: Thanks!


	8. Of Mirrors and Monstrosities

"Once more, I apologize for the delay in updating," said EP41, clutching her marble notebook lovingly. "I've been working my arse off on another project that centers around my lovely muse. It's a series of songfics called Songs for a Snake, and if you just can't get enough of Gríma, that's where to go."  
"I'm not a snake," Gríma pouted. "Why does everyone think that?"  
"Oh, shut up," EP groaned. "You're lucky I write about you at all. If I don't, who will? A bunch of glorious authors here at , and the gals over at Vereena's site, and that's about it, buddy. Now, disclaim!" She swept her arms about in a dramatic fashion and Gríma cast her an exasperated look.  
"She doesn't own me, Éowyn, Rohan, Middle-earth, or Hugo Weaving."  
"Life is sad sometimes. But let the story continue!" EP snapped her fingers and transported her faithful readers to AU storyland.

----------------------------------------  
  
VIII. Of Mirrors and Monstrosities  
  
Gríma did not care for mirrors at all. When he had taken up residence in Meduseld, the first thing he had done in his new living quarters was take down the mirror in its carven frame, and put it behind the bookshelf. It was still there, under a black cloth that was covered in thick grey dust. In his opinion, there was no need to remind himself of why Éowyn had never loved him.  
  
Mirrors were for people who had something nice to look at.  
  
He too was growing anxious as the sun went down. He paced the length of his chamber again and again, excited and incredibly worried at the same time. _What if she does not come?_ Ridiculous. Éowyn was not one to break her word. _What if she scorns me?_ he thought. _You insecure fool. This is far too serious a vow that she has made to make any levity of it._ He began to move around the room, straightening up as best he could, placing books back on their shelves and trying to clear the dust from every flat surface. He straightened the coverlets on the bed – where they soon would be – and wondered what Éowyn would want to do. He suspected that she would want to get it over with, and found he really couldn't blame her. What she was doing was very brave.  
  
For the first time in years, Gríma wondered how he looked. He knew, of course, that it did not matter, but he wished to look decent for her. And there was only one way to find out.  
  
Resolutely, he strode over to the bookshelf and grabbed the black- covered object from behind it. It took some strength to move, and he prayed the shelf would not topple over. Finally it was freed from its cramped dwelling. He carefully removed the cloth cover, and was rewarded with a cloud of ferocious particles of dust that attacked mercilessly before floating off or perching on his robes.  
  
The mirror was full-length, though it hardly needed to be so tall for him. Within its frame, elegantly decorated with reliefs of horses and suns, was an ugly picture of a slight man in black. Gríma shook his head at his reflection as if it might change into one of a strong Rider if he willed it hard enough. He frowned at his oily hair, his pallid complexion, that one bastard eye that had never conformed to the darker hue of its brother. Layers of black velvet and fur made him look like a hunchback of sorts, despite his small frame. Overall, he made for a very unattractive picture.  
  
He removed his cloak and stripped to the waist, taking grim note of his almost complete lack of musculature. He had been a sickly baby and a weak child, and now he was not much better. Carefully he straightened his back, hoping to add an inch or two to his unimpressive stature, his spine cracking in protest as he did so. No, there was nothing remarkable about his body. The majority of him had not seen the sun in years – probably since the beginning of his life – and while his face was pale, the rest of him was nothing short of a yellowed ghostly shade.  
  
There was nothing that could be done about any of this, and yet it was not this which troubled him. Still his mind was not at rest. He would not take Éowyn were she unwilling; he wanted her to truly love him. This was the truth, though she would not believe it if he found the words to tell her so. After all, he was a worm, without morals and without any sense of honor left in him.  
  
But soon, for just that night, everything would be peaceful. The thought of Éowyn against him, all his, made him feel rather dizzy. He touched a hand to his forehead until the feeling passed, and then thought about attempting to remove the snarls from his hair before deciding it was a lost cause.  
  
After replacing the depressing mirror behind the shelf, Gríma resumed his pacing. He was growing more anxious by the minute, the "what ifs" flying through his head. His two biggest fears were now that what was going to happen would make her absolutely miserable, and whether he would be able to please her... not that he expected her to find much pleasure in the act at all. He hoped she would not cry; he thought that for he would not be able to stand it if she did. It seemed ages since he had last lain with a woman, and certainly none of those few times had been out of love. For a time he had paid visits to the lower women of the area, who were willing to sell themselves for a few coins of little worth. Even then he had been choosy, though, for he would comb their dark streets until he found a slender one with blonde hair. But even then it had been different; their hair was coarse and stank of penury. They were not her, and they never would be.  
  
He walked the length of the room impatiently; he sat down on the bed and got up again; he tried reading something and he found it impossible to concentrate. After awhile he began to worry that she was not coming. _But she must, she_ must, he told himself. He tried reciting the Tengwar under his breath, something he had done to calm himself since he was a child -- but he could barely remember what the characters looked like, much less their names. And for all his efforts to calm down, he still nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the knock on the door.  
  
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"Aw, come on!" Gríma protested. "I have to wait another chapter? You suck, EP!"  
EP41 simply smiled enigmatically and answered her very very happy-making reviews.

Review Responses:  
  
**leonsalanna-- **Thanks! Yeah, I know the chapters are short, but I think there will end up being about 11 chapters, so that should make up for it! True, Eowyn would never "really" strike this kind of bargain, but I needed to get this "what if" out of my head and onto paper. I'm glad I'm forgiven! ;)  
  
**Natara-- **Thankee! Lol, your reviews are always so funny.  
  
**Verse-- **Hooray! Glad you liked chapter 7; it's got to be my favorite. Still no word from Vereena...  
  
**Lady Baelish--** Well, how similar are we talking for your one-shot idea? I would say go for it, because I'd love to read it!  
  
**Auri Mynonys**-- Aw! Don't die! I promise I'll update faster next time! ::twiddles thumbs, cracks knuckles, prepares to speed-type::  
  
You guys all rock so much! ::tosses Grima plushies to reviewers:: See you next chapter!


	9. Cold

ElvenPirate41 dramatically appeared before the audience, followed by a giddy Grima. "Hey! This fic actually has a following!" she said.

"Of course it does," said Grima. "I'm in it. My fans are cultish."

"Tell me about it," said EP. "A huge thanks to ShelobTinuviel for her help with this chapter. Anyhow, I shall open with the following Pink Floyd lyrics, from the song _The Trial_ from the album _The Wall._"  
  
------------------------------------------------

_The prisoner who now stands before you  
__Was caught red-handed showing_ feelings  
_Showing feelings of an almost human nature  
__Shame on him  
__This will not do_

IX. Cold

Éowyn had stood outside the door for a considerable amount of time before finally raising her hand and knocking. _This is it,_ she thought as she heard soft footsteps from within. _This will determine the fate of my people._

The door swung open to reveal Wormtongue looking far worse than she had ever seen him – probably due to the fact that he was stripped to the waist and no longer hiding beneath layers of black. _By Béma, he's horrific._ "Please," he said. "Come in."

She entered the musty chamber, taking in the bookshelves and inkpots which seemed to have more ownership over the room than he. She eyed the bed especially warily, and found herself wondering if the sheets were clean. Somehow, she doubted it very much.

"You look lovely, Éowyn," he said, and she detected that his usual confidence in speech was greatly diminished. "That dress flatters you."

"Then I suppose I need no further flattery from you, Worm," she responded, feeling a triumph at watching the wretched man flinch at the name. He looked as though he was about to speak, but then shut his mouth for once. Instead, he looked somewhat uncomfortable.

"Well?" she said apprehensively. Since he was rather the one in charge here, she had expected him to be a bit more assertive. Instead, he was living up to his snakelike appellation.

"Well what?" he returned, moving closer to her, and not-so-discreetly wiping his palms on his pants. His pale eyes were on her, hungrily sizing her up. She made herself meet the eerie eyes and put on a haughty look.

"What are you waiting for?" she said, a challenge in her tone. "Too frightened? You've always been more of a worm than a man, haven't you?"

With surprising swiftness he moved towards her until their faces were an inch apart. His breath was sour and she dared not step away. "Do not trifle with me, Éowyn. If I so desired, I could make this very difficult, and very" –he looked her up and down once more— "painful for you. And may I remind you that you have not always thought of me as a worm, nor labeled me as such." He moved slightly back and Éowyn released breath.

"Fine, then. Gríma." She maintained a calm exterior despite her growing anxiousness. "Let us please get this over and done with." She clenched and loosened her hands, mentally preparing herself.

_Steady, Éowyn. For Rohan._

He moistened his dry lips slightly but did not move. Her gaze upon him was as cold steel.

"Go on, then, if you can," she said, again in almost a challenge. "Ravish me until you are satiated, and then let it be done."

In a moment the distance between them was closed and his lips were on hers – surprisingly more gentle than she had expected, but cold, as though no blood flowed to them. One cautious hand was on her waist, and the other touched her neck and hair. They were bloodless as well; the chill of his hand was palpable through the thin fabric of her dress.

Without warning, his hand moved from her waist to reach around her back and pull her against him. They were pressed closer together and so she began to return the kiss. The phrase 'Wormtongue' was decidedly prominent in her mind. The kiss roughened, and against every ounce of sense she possessed she parted her lips to allow his tongue entry. As he probed her mouth she fought bile from rising in her throat – and then she realized that the whole situation was not as terrible as she had anticipated. Not yet, anyway. She had been deprived of any real human contact for so long that so far even this was tolerable.

She raised her limp arms and put them around him, her palms resting on his back, drawing him as close against her as possible.

Wormtongue's entire body went rigid.

-----------------------

Never before had he known such bliss, such perfection. To hear her speak his true name, as she had not in so many years, was as the fanfare of trumpets in his mind, but to touch her was impossible ecstasy. Her skin and hair were so soft it was as if they belonged to a goddess, and to actually kiss her was more than he had ever thought possible. He drank her in as a thirsting man would water, savoring her taste and memorizing the contours of the body he pulled against his own.

There was no Saruman, there was no Théoden. There were only the two of them, and the night.

It seemed all his dreams were manifesting before him, and he thought whatever remained of his heart after all the cruel years was likely to explode. Her scent was the sweet of the summer's dried grass, and she was the essence of beauty, wild and radiant. She was exquisite, she was perfect, and she was his.

Suddenly she was embracing him, and kissing him back. He was overwhelmed with desire; his body wanted more and craved her alone. But a thousand alarms were sounding in his head, and he had always been one to value the mind over the body.

Never could he do what she had asked, never could he go against the will of Saruman. She was right: he was weak, a complete coward. He dared not defy the wizard, for his retribution would be severe, and would destroy them all.

But he could save Éowyn from what she was about to do.

He drew away from her and met her confused eyes. "You must go," he said somewhat harshly, turning to gather his clothes.

"I beg your pardon?" Éowyn's face held an expression of bewilderment. "I understood it that we had a bargain."

He quickly slid on his black garments, immediately feeling safer beneath the dark layers. He spoke as he ushered her towards the door, his tone icy. "I cannot do that which you request of me. Despite any small effort I might make all would fall into darkness, and you would be left full of despondency and self-hatred." As she looked at him from just outside the doorway there was something in her eyes that he could not place – was it pity? Respect? He did not know, and he did not care to dwell on it at the moment.

"I think it best that we nullify our agreement," he told her, cold eyes looking at her bitterly. "Good evening, Éowyn."

He shut the door, and wondered if what he had just done was the noblest thing he could ever do for her, or simply a once-in-a-lifetime chance thrown away.  
  
---------------------------------  
  
EP41 ducked under her desk, trying to hide from all the people who wanted Grima to get some. She poked her head out cautiously and was promptly whacked in the face with a two-by-four wielded by her muse.

"What does a guy have to do to get some action around here??" he said as EP shrieked angrily. "Come on!"

"I'm sorry! I'm trying to make you look like you have a little dignity, dude!" she said springing up and countering the attack with her own two-by-four.

"Screw dignity! I want Eowyn!" He suddenly dropped the plank of wood and began eyeing EP, who happened to be blonde and Nordic in descent, in a strange manner.

"Oh no," she said. He made puppy dog eyes at her. "If you want that you'd have to get me a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth. And that's impossible. Even if it was possible, you'd probably lose a hand in the process."

Review Responses:

**ElvenDestiny**-- Hey! Thanks so much; I read the update of BRR and loved it; I'll review it soon.  
**Verse**-- I _love_ Phantom of the Opera, it is my favorite show ever. Glad you like the ANs, they're fun to write!  
**szara**-- Lol, sorry. I just like dragging things out ;)  
**auri mynonys**-- Well, I hope this chapter sufficed!  
**Natara**-- ""You brought me here to listen to my quite literally back-stabbing servant slouch into depression about physical shortcomings...and you didn't bring popcorn?"" ::tosses popcorn to Saruman:: Actually, it was throat-slitting ;)  
**Mariette**-- See? It wasn't too disgusting! Of course Arwen is Aragorn's gal! Always!  
**leonsalanna**-- "what if" fics are super fun... hope you liked the chapter!


	10. Saved

EP41 began to do the introduction, but was distracted by Grima running about packing. "_What _are you doing?"

"I'm going to get a Silmaril, of course," he said. EP stared at him, dumbfounded. "What? I'm love-starved!" he said.

"I wasn't serious!" EP blurted. "Look," she said, trying to entice him to stop. "ShelobTinuviel sent you some Grima-snacks. Why don't you eat these and stay here? A muse on the run is of no use to me."

"Fine," said Grima, and he plopped down in the swivel chair next to EP and began to spin.

--------------------------------------------  
  
X. Saved

After a few moments of staring at the closed door in utter shock, Éowyn finally made herself move down the corridor to her bower. She entered and sat down on her bed, feeling rather dizzy. Why in the world had he stopped? She had thought she was all he wanted – or, at least, what he wanted the most out of anything.

What was it he had said_? _

_'Despite any small effort I might make all would fall into darkness, and you would be left full of despondency and self-hatred.'_

The memory of the words confused, infuriated, and almost soothed her. Once more, he was telling her of the exact feelings which permeated her mind; indeed, it seemed he could read her thoughts as he would a book.

_So what does this mean?_ she thought. _He will do nothing, that is what it means. He will continue to poison Théoden's mind with his foul words, and all will be lost._

She pondered what he had told her just minutes before, and got up, twisting a lock of golden hair around her finger. "Oh, what was the use anyway?" she said aloud, moving to the wardrobe and taking out a far more sensible nightdress. "The man has no sense of what's right and what isn't; he never would have followed through on it."

_Perhaps he would have, though,_ she thought as she changed into the other dress, i_f he could have. Is it not better that he told you to go without the disgrace of your actions on your mind? He could have taken advantage of you and then still do nothing, and yet he chose to let you leave, to free you, albeit in a rather cold and hasty manner. He has saved you, in a way._

_Saved me, as a spider wraps up a fly and saves it for another time,_ she tried to reason with herself. It was a losing battle.

_He would not sink so low. There would be no cause for him to take you unwilling when he had you there for the taking, a lovely bit of golden treasure for him to possess, if only for a while._

Éowyn slid between the cool sheets of her own bed and decided that it would be better if they both acted as if the whole incident had never occurred. After all, how could she possibly see him, face him, speak to him, and act as if things were completely the same? It would be impossible.

Every time she saw him she would remember the chill of his hands; every time he spoke she would recall the feel of his lips on hers. Things could never be the same.

She wondered what he was doing now – probably prowling the corridors as usual or whispering new lies to a helpless king. Yet she now thought she held a new feeling towards the wretch. It was certainly not love, it was hardly like. It seemed more like a small amount of respect. _He could have used me... but he did not. I suppose that out of fear that he would not be able to do what I asked, and also the fear of his master's wrath, he turned me away. Perhaps he has a few shreds of dignity left._

It was a weary shieldmaiden who at last stopped worrying and drifted into slumber as Eärendil shone through her window.

But it was a solemn councilor who forsook sleep and neither prowled nor whispered, but stood and watched the stars fade into the pale grey of the morning.  
  
--------------------------------  
  
Short, yes. I know. Okay, here's what's going on. I'm going on vacation for five days, and I've only got a paragraph of the next chapter done. I'm going to try and work on it in the car, but it'll take a while for me to get the next update up, just to let you all know! Review? Please?  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**leonsalanna** -- Well, in a fair world... yes. But this is my world. ::cackles:: To be serious, though... Grima won't be sticking around much longer. So things'll get better for Eowyn, I swear.  
**Natara** -- Well, he _can _be pretty surprising at times...  
**szara** -- ::looks abashed:: Sorry... I update when I can...  
**Verse** -- You must have stolen my Palantir and looked into my word file to predict the outcome of chapter 9! Thanks for the nice review, though ;)  
**Auri -- **You looked in my Palantir too! =P Yes, romantic tragedy is wonderful. ::sighs::  
  
I have to thank all you guys for the great reviews, you rock!


	11. Silence

"With no ado whatsoever, I bring you this chapter at long last!" said EP41, Grima skulking in the background. "I dedicate this chapter to Rhea, or TrinityInfinity here at FFN, for convincing me that writer's block is only a state of mind."  
  
--------------------

XI. Silence

One day passed, and then another. Éowyn avoided Wormtongue as she had always done, and he made no attempts to seek her out. If they chanced upon one another, a civil but extremely brief exchange of words – consisting mainly of phrases such as "Good day, councilor" and "How fares my Lady?" – might take place before they went their separate ways, if they spoke at all. Even so, he did not seem to meet her gaze; it appeared that he always looked somewhere past her and only looked upon her face when her eyes turned elsewhere.

He was even absent in the main hall, and this was a pleasant surprise for her. It seemed he kept mainly to himself, and remained out of sight. Often it was that she visited her uncle upon his throne, but rarely was Wormtongue at his side. She wondered what it was he was up to, although she did no care so much as to bother finding out. Instead she savored the freedom and tried to forget about what had nearly come to pass.

She spoke to her uncle of many things, from the weather to the Orc-raids she had heard about in the outward reaches of the Mark. It was not the topic which mattered, anyway; it was simply drawing any sort of response from him which was her goal. But one never came, save some indistinct murmurs, and she feared she was wasting time on a lost cause. She felt that she could not give up, though, could not leave her uncle to sit forever like a stone with his senses barely intact. To acknowledge failure was to let Wormtongue win.

Éowyn had wondered what Gríma was doing for those days, and the answer was that he had spent most of them thinking, simply contemplating the things that were bothering him. Especially: why did he feel so miserable? He had shared a kiss with the most beautiful, the most wondrous of women in all the world. There were times when he would have killed for that; in fact, he probably still would, he thought. He easily remembered her taste, and he thought that he could still detect a hint of her scent, a breath of air like sweet flowers in the dry dust of his quarters.

And yet he was not cheered or comforted; indeed, things seemed even worse than before... that night. He had been empowered before. He had been able to speak to her, admire her, lust for her, because he had never laid a questionable finger on her. Now, even though he had turned her away after just a kiss – oh, but what a kiss – he could hardly look her in those beautiful, storm-grey eyes anymore. If he had saved her from doing something terrible, something she would have regretted forever, then why did he not feel better? He had always thought that doing a noble deed was supposed to fill one with self-satisfaction and fulfillment, but perhaps the ways of the world had changed since the last time he did anything noble.

Sitting in his chamber one day, much like all the other days, Gríma turned these thoughts over in his head for hours.

_It was because you were going to do it; you were going to take her. She was _there_ for the taking,_ he told himself at last. _Either way it would have ended in disaster. Had she lain there and taken it you would have felt unbearable guilt. But instead she returned your kiss and you hated the thought of her pretending. You fool,_ he thought bitterly.

_Perhaps she will understand my reasons,_ he thought for a moment, clutching a thin ray of hope that quickly faded. _No, no doubt she is merely glad to have escaped the fate she devised for herself._

He rubbed at his tired eyes and rested his head in his hand. He never was one to sleep much, but for the past few days he had avoided sleeping at all. He was not sure why... perhaps he was punishing himself. He didn't really know.

_Gríma, you coward,_ he thought. _You hide in misery, all because of fear of facing her? What is there to fear? Why do you waste your time worrying about her? She is only a woman._ But no, the errant thought was not true; she was not just a woman. To say so would be like saying the plains are only dirt, or the sea is only water.

_I must get out of here. I must face her and go about my business. I must forget it all._

_Oh, but I cannot. It would be like trying to forget the stars._

_-----------------------  
  
_Yeah, so it's short... what else is new. I would like to have all your opinions on how to end this. I know it's going to end at Orthanc. My question is, should I go by movie-version (and therefore include that great single tear scene) or book-version (Grima reaching Isengard after it is flooded). I probably will do the movie version because it's kind of what I've been going by so far, but nothing's definite so far. So, care to review?  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**leonsalanna** -- Grima's miserable, see? Happy now? :)  
**auri **-- I have to wonder, though, if I was in Eowyn's place would I return his love? As dearly as I adore Grima, I probably wouldn't since he is rather responsible for the deterioration of her country.  
  
Chapter XII as it comes to me.


	12. Despicable AKA Movie Ending

"Choose your poison," said EP41, having finally written a new chapter. "This ending is based on movie-verse. If you want to read the book-verse version, it's highly likely I shall write one of those, too, simply because I don't like making decisions. Hell, you can even read both."

"This ending sucks," said Gríma. "Don't you know I'm supposed to get the girl?"

"It's not all _that_ AU, Grimmers my dear," said EP. "A massive thanks to Auri for getting me off my lazy ass to write this chapter, and to ShelobTinuviel for a wonderful beta-job, as always."

"Get on with it!" Gríma shouted, and thus it began.

----------------------------

XII. Despicable

The next day was different.

Holding true to at least some of his resolution, Gríma at last returned to the main hall of Meduseld. Éowyn was walking through as he entered, the filtered sunlight shining on her hair. She wore a white dress.

He suppressed his anxieties and bowed his head in greeting to her as she passed. Although he did not see it, the look she gave him was one of interest, of curiosity, as if she expected something new and different from him. However, he took his place next to Théoden just as he had done for so many years, and her gaze turned to anger and disappointment.

_I suppose people cannot change so greatly after all,_ she thought as she left the Hall.

-------------------

He spat at the feet of the rejuvenated king, at the hand which was extended to him, and fled. He feared the wrath of Théoden, who was hale once more, and scorned the mercy of this newcomer, this Man. It was better to escape than to remain as a prisoner. Knocking people out of the way, he ran to the stables and arrived out of breath. A black horse of medium size stared sideways at him with those hateful eyes of his kind. Gríma mounted the saddled horse, and made for Orthanc.

-------------------

He arrived to find Isengard a barren waste, with smoke billowing out of pits in the ground, the glow of fire reddening their stony rims. Machinery creaked as Orcs scurried about. Yowls and feral cries rose up into the air, and floated away on the wind. Gríma urged the tiring horse on for the short distance, both of them choking on the smoke. He wondered what foul designs Saruman had devised, almost fearing to find out.

Reaching the black steps, he ungracefully dismounted the horse and climbed up them, leaving the beast to fend for itself. Trepidation filled him, but it was strangely mingled with apathy. Saruman would be displeased at the best, but what did it matter anymore? He pulled open the door and entered the oppressive darkness of the tower. A few tiny windows, no more than slits in the walls covered in a blue-tinged glass, allowed in a bit of eerie light which made little bright glares on the stone walls. He made for the spiral staircase which would take him to Saruman's study, but just as he reached them, a figure swept down towards him.

Saruman was clad in shimmering robes, which appeared white at first glace, but to the more observant eye were revealed to be of all colors, woven in a confusing, ever-changing array. Yet the wizard's eyes were black, and they glittered coldly down at his servant.

"Come," he said, in a commanding tone which would have made stronger men than Gríma follow without question.

Gríma obliged.

They reached the study, a round, spacious room with wrought iron in the windows. Although large, the windows provided only a cold grey light; the rest of the light in the room came from flames within black lamps. The study was filled with many things: curious tomes which Gríma would have given his right arm to look at (for he was, of course, left-handed), strangely fascinating _things_ in jars, suspended quietly in thick liquid, and everything else one could imagine, from Harad jewelry to small clay models of the Púkel-men at Dunharrow. A very thin layer of dust covered many of Saruman's artifacts; little specks of dust danced in the windows.

Saruman turned to glare at his servant. "I take it you have failed, then, Worm." His voice was discordant, like shattered glass.

Gríma looked down. He noticed that the wizard's white shoes, just visible under the hem of his robes, were dirty. "There was nothing I could have done, my lord." He raised his eyes, hoping that the information he had would stay Saruman's wrath. The other's eyebrows bristled as he waited for an explanation. "Gandalf the Grey came, but he was Grey no longer – he wore white, my lord, and it was he who released Théoden. Surely you could not have expected me to overcome one such as Gandalf?"

Saruman frowned. "Gandalf the White... Gandalf the Fool! Does he seek to humble me with his newfound piety?" Gríma relaxed as the wizard turned away in thought. He felt a warm sensation at the corner of his mouth, and realized the cut there was bleeding afresh. While Saruman bent over his desk in search of a book, Gríma pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the blood away. The now dingy square of fabric had once been Éowyn's; the embroidered horses at the corners had faded, and it was ragged at the edges. She had disposed of it, but he had salvaged it from the refuse before it could be burned. He wondered what she was thinking of at that very moment.

"There were three who followed the wizard," Gríma offered. "An Elf, a Dwarf, and a Man."

Saruman turned around, apparently having found the proper book, and looked at Gríma in distaste. "The Man... was he from Gondor?"

Gríma considered the question, and felt jealousy rise up inside him – for had he not seen Éowyn's eyes light up with the sight of the man? "No, from the North," he said at last. "One of the Dúnedain Rangers I thought him. His cloth was poor. But he bore a strange ring – two serpents with emerald eyes: one devouring, the other crowned in golden flowers."

Saruman turned a few leaves in his book. "The Ring of Barahir," he said softly, his voice honeyed and dangerous once more. Gríma recognized the name. "So Gandalf Greyhame thinks he has found Isildur's heir, the lost king of Gondor. He is a fool – the line was broken years ago." He closed the book, the heavy leather cover thumping as it met the pages. "It matters not. The world of men shall fall. It will begin at Edoras."

"No," said Gríma. Saruman, thinking his servant was being insubordinate, looked at him as if daring him to continue. "Théoden will not stay at Edoras," he went on. "It is vulnerable; he knows this. He will expect an attack on the city. They will flee to Helm's Deep, the great fortress of Rohan. It is a dangerous road through the mountains. They will be slow. They will have women, and children with them."

"I see," said Saruman contemplatively, seeming pleased with the information. He stood in silence for a few moments, and then settled his gaze on his servant.

"You stink of horse."

Gríma said nothing.

"What did you do with the beast you took?"

"I left it at the foot of the tower, lord." Éowyn had called him lord...

Saruman seemed to consider something. "Shall I go attend to it?" he asked of him.

"No," said the master of Orthanc, somewhat craftily. "No, let it fare as it may amid the fire. You are dismissed, Worm – go. I shall send for you later." With a wave of his hand, he turned his back. Gríma moved towards the black staircase, and was about to ascend when Saruman spoke once more.

"And, Worm," he said, not looking up from the items he was gathering on the desk before him, "see if you can do anything about that horrid horse-stench."

The wizard's words were meant only as a final insult – Gríma understood he expected nothing from his failed spy. He paused, and then silently began the ascent to his small chamber.

-------------------

His chamber, close to the top of the tower, had no window. It was lit by a few stubby tapers which made the walls glimmer a sickly gold. Time did not pass in that room, save as marked by the descent of the flames as the wax below them melted away.

He arrived in the chamber, and closed the heavy door behind him. He was at a loss for what to do, feeling rather drained both physically and mentally. He admitted to himself that the wizard did frighten him – fortunately, Saruman had seemed satisfied with the information he had been able to supply. Lifting the edge of his cloak, he sniffed it delicately, and wrinkled his brow at the smell before releasing the fabric: horse-stink through and through. As meaningless as Saruman's parting words had been, they were in no way inaccurate.

He sat down on the thin, creaky bed, staring vaguely at the light of the candles, and turning his thoughts to Éowyn. She would be glad of his departure, he mused. _It was all for the best, I suppose,_ he thought. He doubted he would ever see her again – unless, he suddenly realized, Rohan was conquered and Saruman made good on his promise. He almost laughed at the thought of he and Éowyn reunited in Orthanc after all they had gone through – what could possibly come of it? For now all he could hope was that from time to time he would be in her thoughts, and that not all her thoughts of him would be ill. He hoped she would at least be happier now.

He thought he had seen in Éowyn's eyes a look that he had never seen pass over them before. How could he fail to recognize what such a look meant when he had cast so similar a glance upon her? When she looked at the Ranger, who bore the Ring of Barahir, Gríma had detected great admiration, and possibly, he thought, love in her painfully beautiful eyes. And why would she not feel love for him? The man was valiant, strong, and lordly; he had helped save her homeland.

He felt a pang of jealousy bitter as bile once more. The Ranger was everything Éowyn had ever wanted, possibly even the heir to a great and noble kingdom. He had simply walked into the Golden Hall and ensnared her heart, whether intentionally or not.

_She aims high, my lady shieldmaiden. She may yet be a queen if she has her way._

He closed his eyes and thought of the touch of Éowyn's skin.

-------------------

How long he sat there lost in thought he could not say – yet he was jarred from his musings when he heard the harsh bray of a horn-call such as he had never heard before, even through the unbreakable stone of Orthanc. He listened closely, and heard it again. It sparked his curiosity, but he could not fathom what Saruman was up to. He thought of the smoke rising from the pits surrounding the tower, and wondered whether the wretched horse had yet met its demise.

The noise from outside, though he judged it would probably be deafening to one out there, sounded like a deep buzz. As time passed, a steady, pounding pulse eventually grew from the irregular din. He got up and walked over to the wall; placing a hand on it, he could feel it vibrating slightly. It continued for some time until at last a great, brash call came up from the horn once more. Then all fell disturbingly silent.

Gríma strained his ears, but he could hear nothing. The quiet unnerved him, and the room seemed as cold and silent as the legendary Void itself. It seemed apparent that the activity outside had stopped – what could possibly have made such a noise? Perhaps some new machinery of Saruman's, or perhaps he had been breeding something foul down under the ground. He could even have obtained some Mûmakil for the war which he was sure would soon come.

In a few minutes, a short knock came on his door. Before he could answer, a hunched, mud-splattered Orc opened the door. The creature's ragtag garments looked like a dull-colored patchwork quilt sewn in the dark.

"Lord Saruman bids you join him in his study," the twisted thing rasped.

Gríma followed the Orc down the spiraling stairs. It grumbled to itself, muttering under its breath about having more important things to do than fetching people when Saruman could surely do so himself. The griping Orc did not report back to its master, either; when they reached the proper level, he just continued down the seemingly endless stair. Gríma let himself in.

The wizard was examining some equipment on the table before him, poring over charts and checking measurements. When Gríma entered, the wizard's black eyes bored into his servant's pale blue. "You say the people will flee to Helm's Deep. You have been there, have you not?"

"I have."

"Then you would know of its layout, of any weaknesses it might have. You have a sharp eye, Worm, however useless the rest of you may be. No fortress is impenetrable. Are there any places in the Deep where the walls are weak? Where an attack might be centered?"

Gríma remembered when he had been at the fortress, supervising the storage of provisions and supplies. Théoden, who was yet in good health then, had entrusted such an important job only to his head councilor.

"Its outer wall is solid rock," he told his master. "No foe has ever breached them. To hope to do so is next to impossible. But, as you say, Helm's Deep has one weakness: a small culvert at its base, which is little more than a drain."

"That will do perfectly," said the wizard, the corners of his mouth twitching up ever so slightly.

"What for, my lord? The culvert narrows as it goes under the wall; a battalion could not fit through the opening more than one at a time, even if they did manage to break through the grate."

"Stone can be conquered by many things: the roots of trees, or the slow eroding of water. But these _natural_ forces take much time," he said, saying the word 'natural' as though it had insulted him, "and so I have created a superior solution. The stone shall be conquered by fire." The wizard took a flask filled with what seemed to be tiny black stones, and began pouring its contents into a bowl which already was nearly filled with the unfamiliar substance.

Curiously, Gríma picked up a candlestick and approached the wizard to get a closer look. "How?" he asked. "How can fire undo stone? What kind of device could bring down the—" His question was cut short, for as he leaned over the bowl, holding the candle near it, Saruman had suddenly stopped his hand. Saruman gave him a look of warning, and Gríma lowered his arm, dying to know what the wizard knew here that he did not.

"If the wall is breached, Helm's Deep will fall," Saruman said calmly, walking away from the table.

"Even if it is breached," Gríma argued, following him across the spacious room, "it would take a number beyond reckoning, thousands, to storm the Keep." As much as he hated the Rohirrim, he was willing to admit that they were not to be underestimated in battle. They would defend their people to the last man, and while they defended Helm's Deep no foe had ever defeated them.

"Tens of thousands," Saruman corrected him, his tone rational.

Gríma grew impatient as Saruman headed for the balcony. "But, my lord, there _is_ no such force—"

They stepped onto the balcony, and a great roar and a horn-call sounded.

Shocked, Gríma beheld an army unlike any he had ever seen. Ten thousand large Orcs stood in ranks, outfitted with armor and weaponry. They carried pikes and tall banners bearing the White Hand. They chanted harshly but their words were indiscernible. He looked down in amazement mingled with wonder and horror. So _this_ was what Saruman had been doing. The wind whipped about him and blew out the candle he still clutched in his hand.

The wizard raised a hand and the Orcs grew quiet. "A new power is rising," he announced to his army. "Its victory is at hand!" A mighty cheer came from the creatures. "This night the land will be red with the blood of Rohan! March to Helm's Deep. Leave none alive!" he commanded. His black eyes glittered maliciously as he raised his arms. "To war!" he cried. The army below let out the most raucous shouts yet.

Gríma felt overwhelmed by it all, looking at the machine of war which now prepared to march out of Angrenost. Had he done this? He had turned against them and gave Saruman the ability to destroy them. With a force this size, it seemed hopeless for Rohan. He had never borne any love for his people, and yet he had never expected _this_. The horse-lords hidden behind their stone walls could be no match for their merciless foe.

And Éowyn would die with them. No doubt her uncle would wish her to help the women and children in the caves, but if the battle were to turn ill, she might – nay, would – abandon her post to fight for her people. He envisioned her proudly leaving the caves, her sword in hand, facing her foe with eyes of steely fire, and being cut down by one of the hulking monsters, crimson blood staining her white dress – for in his mind she would always wear white.

He had not wept since he was a young boy, and yet now a solitary tear trickled down the cold cheek of Gríma called the Wormtongue. And as Saruman turned to leave, he said what Gríma had been thinking: "There is nothing more useful, or more despicable, Worm, than a traitor."

---------------------

Well? Like? Dislike? Do tell with a review!

**Review Responses:**

**Verse:** Thanks! I'm quite a movie-version fan too, although the Scouring of the Shire is my favorite chapter of all of LotR. My paperback copy of RotK opens to it automatically, that's how many times I've read it. ;)

**Culumacilinte:** Here ya go; hope you liked it.

**leonsalanna:** No, you haven't seemed bitter at all – it's just you seemed to be very much on Éowyn's side, and wouldn't have minded seeing Gríma get what he deserves.

**Natara:** Heh heh... philosophical nonsense is endlessly fun. :D

**Nertrender:** That's the great thing about their relationship, though... it just isn't meant to happen but we all wish it would!

**Harry Hippie:** Hope this wasn't too tragic for you!

**Mariette:** Thanks! And don't worry, the book-ending should come in time.  
  
**Faramir1017:** Updated it is!

**Auri:** Again, thank you for actually getting me to write this... hope it was to your enjoyment! And of course I'd give him a hug -- he's just bizarrely lovable.

"Ain't that right, Gríma?" EP asked of her muse.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he responded. "Um, in the book-version... I have to wallow through a lot of dirty water to get to Orthanc, don't I?"

"Yup," said EP, grinning sadistically.

"That's gross," Gríma said, clutching his hankie.


	13. Despicable Part II AKA Book Ending

Remember that book-ending that I promised many moons ago? Well, here it is - the story is finally done. The beginning is similar to that of the movie-ending chapter. Grima-Treebeard dialogue is taken from the Two Towers, Book III, Chapter 9. Enjoy!

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XIII. Despicable: Book-Ending

The next day was different.

Holding true to at least some of his resolution, Gríma at last returned to the main hall of Meduseld. Éowyn was walking through as he entered, the filtered sunlight shining on her hair. She wore a white dress.

He suppressed his anxieties and bowed his head in greeting to her as she passed. Although he did not see it, the look she gave him was one of interest, of curiosity, as if she expected something new and different from him. However, he took his place next to Théoden just as he had done for so many years, and her gaze turned to anger and disappointment.

_I suppose people cannot change so greatly after all,_ she thought as she left the Hall.

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He spat at the feet of the rejuvenated king and fled. He would not dare to ride to war with Théoden, and he could not stay here now that the king was hale once more. It was better to escape than to remain as a prisoner. Knocking people out of the way, he ran to the stables and arrived out of breath. A black horse of medium size stared sideways at him with those hateful eyes of his kind. Gríma mounted the saddled horse, and made for Orthanc.

-

As he approached Angrenost, it was immediately evident that something was not right. He knew that Saruman had been building an army in the pits surrounding Orthanc; the smoke had been visible from afar as Gríma had ridden there not so long ago to tell the wizard of Gandalf's arrival at Edoras and his taking of Shadowfax. Now, though, the air was disturbingly still, and as Gríma approached, he thought that he heard the faint lapping of water over the hoofbeats of the tiring horse, and it was mist, not smoke, through which he rode. There was an overwhelming smell of the woods after a heavy rain, the earthy scent of wet leaves.

The base of the tower loomed before him, and he stopped short at the sight. The whole ring of Isengard was submerged in several feet of water. Wheels and wreckage lay there in utter ruin. A few orc-corpses floated on the surface. Gríma gaped, wondering what had happened, and where Saruman was. The dam must have been broken – but how?

He heard a low creaking sound, and looked up to see a large tree standing on the path. But no, it was not a tree. It was moving, and approaching him. In fear and shock, he turned the horse about and tried to ride away. But suddenly he was no longer in the saddle; a large woody hand was holding him. He thought it might kill him, and as broken as he was, he still wanted to live. While there was life there was hope. He clutched at the hand, horrified, and it let him go; he fell onto the road in a heap as the horse bolted. The tree-creature loomed high over him inquisitively as he cowered.

Gríma swallowed and hoped that he still had a semblance of sway with his words. "I am Gríma, and I am a friend and councilor of King Théoden of Rohan. I bring important messages from my lord Théoden to Saruman." He wet his lips and continued. "No one else would dare ride through the open land, so full of foul Orcs, so I was sent. And I have had a perilous journey, and I am hungry and weary. I fled far north out of my way, pursued by wolves."

His eyes darted about, and he noticed for the first time two small people who stood there watching. _Holbytla_, he thought them, if the legends were true. Right now, he was willing to believe anything. The tree-creature said nothing, but merely stared at him for several minutes with strange green eyes. He began to feel considerably uncomfortable under its penetrating gaze, and thought perhaps he ought to get up, at the very least. But at last the thing spoke, its voice low, wise, and slow.

"I was expecting you, Master Wormtongue." Gríma cringed, and the thing's next words were even less comfort. "Gandalf got here first. So I know as much about you as I need, and I know what to do with you. Put all the rats in one trap, said Gandalf; and I will. I am the master of Isengard now, but Saruman is locked in his tower; and you can go there and give him all the messages you can think of."

He wanted nothing more than to get away from this fearsome creature. "Let me go, let me go! I know the way," he said.

"You _knew_ the way, I don't doubt. But things have changed here a little. Go and see!"

Gríma scrambled to his feet. He felt rather sore from the long ride, and shuffled over to the gate, only to behold from up close the murky water which now covered the ring. Isengard was ruined; all was lost.

"Let me go away!" he said quickly. "My messages are useless now." He could leave this part of the world forever, perhaps. He could make for Gondor, or even Dunland, and forget all of this.

"They are indeed," the tree-creature rumbled, and Gríma got the distinct feeling that the thing was mocking him. "But you have only two choices: to stay with me until Gandalf and your master arrive; or to cross the water? Which will you have?"

Gríma shivered. He would rather face a broken Saruman than Gandalf and Théoden in their full strength. He remembered the king's parting words: _"If ever we meet again, I shall not be merciful."_ With this as motivation, he gingerly put a foot into the water, but then quickly drew it out as he recalled a vital fact: "I cannot swim." He was not overly fond of water and was not strong enough to swim, especially with heavy robes to weigh him down.

"The water is not deep. It is dirty, but that will not harm you, Master Wormtongue. In you go now!"

With no other option, Gríma stepped into the water. It was not too cold, but it immediately seeped right through his boots. Hesitating, he turned and looked at the tree-creature. It still watched him expectantly, and so he had to continue. As the water grew higher and higher, he tried to take his mind off it by attempting to figure out what the creature was. He vaguely recalled a few references to walking trees in some texts he had read, but the limited information had just been part of old folklore and he had largely ignored it.

By now the water was up to his neck, and he struggled to move forward. The black stairs of the tower were not too far away, though. Just a few more slow steps...

His feet slipped, and he nearly fell beneath the water's surface. Desperately he looked for something to grab for support. A wooden plank was all that was close enough, and so he reached out and held onto it for stability. When he had gathered his nerves once more, he cautiously let go of his support and took a few more steps.

He was quite relieved when the ground began to gently slope upwards. The tower loomed before him, its stairs so close. Finally he dragged himself up on to them, incredibly grateful to feel stone beneath him. He all but crawled up the twenty-seven steps, slipping once because of his wet boots. When he reached the top, he stopped and gasped for breath. Yet he did not stay there for long, for the door opened. Saruman stood there, looking as angry as a robbed dragon. He grasped Gríma's cloak and pulled him into Orthanc, and then closed the door, shutting away the view outside. It made a heavy clang as it shut, a sound of terrible finality.

The wizard stood before him, leaning on his staff, his stance betraying concealed rage. He was clad in shimmering robes, which appeared white at first glace, but to the more observant eye were revealed to be of all colors, woven in a confusing, ever-changing array. Yet his eyes were black, and they glittered coldly down at his servant.

"I take it you have failed, then, Worm." His voice was discordant, like shattered glass.

Gríma looked at the floor in shame, watching the water dripping off his robes and pooling about his feet. "There was nothing I could have done, my lord." He raised his eyes, hoping that he might be able to stay Saruman's wrath – unlikely, but still, he hoped. The other's eyebrows bristled as he waited for an explanation. "Gandalf the Grey came, but he was Grey no longer – he wore white, my lord, and it was he who released Théoden. Surely you could not have expected me to overcome one such as Gandalf?"

"Not often do I strike bargains with Men of your likes," Saruman said fiercely. "And when I do so, I expect that which is due to me. I suppose you were... _distracted_ by this woman you desire? Your time was better spent focusing upon your means, not your end."

"My lord," he began, prepared to defend himself no matter how futile it would prove, surprised by how near to the mark Saruman had been.

"Make me no excuses, Worm!" His knuckles white as he clenched the black staff. "You know not all that has gone awry. Tidings have come to me that your... _horse-lords_," he spat, "achieved victory at Helm's Deep. One aided them greatly in battle," he said silkily. He looked at Gríma expectantly, but the man had heard nothing of the battle and did not understand.

"Gandalf, you ignorant wretch! Gandalf led them and brought them victory, and all because you failed to keep him unarmed. Would that have been so difficult?" His voice went from a shout to almost a whisper, and each tone was equally terrible.

"The doorwarden—"

"Silence!" Saruman shrieked in rage, delivering a strong blow with his staff upon Gríma's shivering frame. The man stumbled but did not fall; he looked at the wizard in sour submission.

In that moment hatred for Saruman blossomed in his heart, a more powerful hatred than any he had ever felt. It was not the resentment he had felt towards Éomer, not the bitterness he felt towards those who had made his youth miserable, not even the searing odium he felt towards Gandalf. It was much more base in nature, subtle and dangerous. Yet he did not dare do anything, even the hatred in his eyes surrendered under the wizard's harsh glare. His one consolation was that he knew Éowyn was safe.

"Disgraceful," said Saruman. "Utterly useless you have proven yourself, Worm. Not only are you a traitor, but you are a failed one – and I am not sure which is the more despicable."

_Ah, but there is a third kind, lord of ruin, a category for me alone: he who betrayed land, king, and self, but never wavered in his devotion to one, though it would mean his downfall._

End.

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Review Responses:

**Mask of Twilight** - Thanks so much! I'm glad you enjoyed it.  
**Verse** - No, no happy ending... not even in this chapter. Oh well. ;)  
**Natara** - No AU ending... canon beginning and end, and the middle part just ran rampant!  
**Auri** - I read and reviewed "The Handkerchief"... although I'm sure you knew that already. ;) Can't wait till you update "Traitor"... _nudge nudge_...

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story; it means so much to me - and thanks to ST for her great beta-ing and advice. By the way, I have a story challenge for any Grima/Eowyn writers out there... you can check that out on my profile (hint hint). See you around!


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